Vincents

I have two old friends called Vincent. The first is an actor, Vincent Regan, who has recently starred in the Hollywood blockbuster 3000. Vincent and I shared a place in Tooting in the early 1980’s in Garratt Lane, Tooting with another actor Charlie Daish. To say Vincent is still a friend is a bit disingenuous because I haven’t seen him for a couple of years and may not see him again. I say this because I read that in the film it would seem that Vincent has the perfect six-pack on his forty-year old body. This was commented on in the papers accompanied by a comment from a friend (was this you Charlie). ‘He didn’t have the perfect six-pack when we went for a drink recently!’ It is of course all done in post-production. It is hard to know what is real now and probably explains why I rarely watch films at all. Or indeed read novels. Reality is the thing for me.

The second Vincent is someone who I regularly keep in touch with (and is a film-maker) and I mention him because he has bought a house very near me in the South of France. We are both very near a place called Beziers. This is rugby country and in the 1970’s and 80’s Beziers could ly claim to being the world’s best rugby club. They were French champions 10 times in 14 years and boasted a fearsome pack of forwards. I went to watch they play in a relegation battle a couple of years ago and the intensity of the occasion felt like a mediaeval bear-pit. I have been to other clubs in France. The smaller club matches are the most fascinating. Even the tiniest villages can raise a team and the games conform to all of the stereotypes. There is nearly always a 30-man punch-up, the wings are all incredibly thin with very tight shorts and the forwards all squat, hairy and immensely strong. They also take place on Sunday afternoon, right after lunch, so most of the crowd is lubricated by large quantities of vin (very) ordinaire. I used to live in a village called Coursan and we went to watch them play once. The match had been awful and eventually the thirty players started fighting. Right after this Coursan produced a moment of sublime brilliance amidst the rubbish. They ran the ball from behind their own goal-line and it went through about 20 pairs of hands and the fly-half ran the ball in un-opposed and in flamboyant celebration. The crowd erupted, as did I, and we forgot for a moment that we were watching a village team and thought we were at the Stade De France . France in a nutshell – tons of mediocrity laced with the thrillingly unpredictable.

On Friday week my team, Narbonne play Toulouse. If they lose they will almost certainly be relegated for the first time ever. I wish them well. I will be there.